


Persistence is Key

by anextraordinarymuse (December_Daughter)



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: F/M, Tumblr Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-19
Updated: 2015-10-19
Packaged: 2018-04-27 03:29:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,408
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5032045
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/December_Daughter/pseuds/anextraordinarymuse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mr. Ludovico - Ludo to those who know him well - has owned his restaurant for many years. The round tables and candlelight have witnessed the beginning - and end - of many things: friendships, romances, marriages. <br/>This is different.<br/>(Or, the story of the Most Persistent Scotsman.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Persistence is Key

**Author's Note:**

> So I originally wrote and posted this on my tumblr. I saw a few people asking for a fic from the point of view of the maitre'd and waiters/waitresses from the restaurant from the date scene, so I thought I'd give it a try. It's a Fitzsimmons fic from an outside POV, post 3x03.

There’s nothing strange about making a reservation; they are a restaurant, after all. That first phone call isn’t even that memorable: the man on the phone sounds a little breathless - he’s probably excited, and that’s normal for the phone calls they receive - and there’s a moment where he has to stop mid-sentence and reach for a word, as though it’s eluded him. When the gentleman on the phone gives him a date and time, his Scottish brogue a little rushed, the owner thinks nothing of it. He confirms the appointment and hangs up.

No, that first phone call wasn’t memorable, but everything else … that’s another story.

Mr. Ludovico - Ludo to those who know him well - has owned his restaurant for many years. The round tables and candlelight have witnessed the beginning - and end - of many things: friendships, romances, marriages. 

This is different.

The Scotsmen sounds completely different the next time he calls. The second call comes in only a few days after the first one, and a good week before the date of the reservation. The timorous excitement and hesitation of before is gone; the rush of syllables feels desperate now. A fight must have occurred, Ludo thinks, or the other party backed out. Ludo is enough of a romantic to empathize with the Scotsman (and anticipate his request). But no, the man doesn’t cancel the reservation. 

“Can we push it back?” he asks. “Just … yeah, just change the date. Don’t cancel it.”

“Of course, Mr. Fitz. When would you like to reschedule for?”

Mr. Fitz chooses a date two weeks out from his original reservation. Ludo makes the change in his date book and hopes that it all works out for the other man.

Ludo is good with names. He doesn’t need to be; they haven’t had many Scots in the restaurant. Besides, Mr. Fitz soon makes himself unforgettable.

The third phone call comes just two days before the (rescheduled) reservation. Ludo recognizes Mr. Fitz’ voice immediately, but only the accent is the same; there is a hard line around the other man’s words now, an edge like a blade that threatens to reach through the phone and spill heartache into the carpet. 

“Would you like to cancel your reservation, Mr. Fitz?”

“No!” Mr. Fitz reacts vehemently. “Don’t cancel it. Just push it back.”

Mr. Fitz is a nameless face on the phone, but he quickly becomes something of a legend amongst the staff. Ludo hears his maitre’d mentioning the “strange man” to one of the serving girls; that same serving girl is overheard relating the story to the head chef. (How did they even learn of Mr. Fitz, Ludo wonders.)

“But why does he keep pushing it back?” someone asks. 

“Maybe she said no.”

“Maybe he’s not out yet.”

“Maybe the other person is dying.”

Mr. Fitz sounds different every time he calls. Tired, distracted, distraught; there is less and less stuttering and pausing for words with each interaction, and though he never cancels the reservation, he starts to push it farther out. Two weeks, three weeks, a month - two months. Mr. Fitz never complains about having to pay and repay the reservation fee; Ludo stops charging him after the third month. 

“Maybe he’s crazy,” a waitress posits.

“Maybe he’s trying to set someone up.”

“Maybe he can’t let go.”

Ludo offers no theories; he wonders, and guesses, but shares nothing. There is something about Mr. Fitz that garners respect, and it would be unprofessional for Ludo to speak of such things with his employees. 

(There is a yearning in the Scotsman’s voice, ever present beneath whatever surface emotion is there, that arrests Ludo’s curiosity; it feels like grief, and perhaps this reservation is a lesson in moving on.)

Ludo isn’t expecting the phone call this time. Mr. Fitz’ voice catches him by surprise - his reservation is still three weeks out from needing to be rescheduled. 

“Mr. Fitz,” he says. He doesn’t have time for much else.

“I need to move my reservation,” Mr. Fitz informs him. The harsh edge has fallen away from his words and been replaced with … Ludo’s not sure. Anxiety?

“Certainly,” Ludo says. “When would you like?”

“Tonight.”

Ludo’s brows furrow in consternation. “Tonight?”

“Yes. And I need to buy out every table. I’ll pay whatever it costs - double for the short notice, if I must, but the place has to be empty.”

Well, maybe Mr. Fitz is crazy after all. “Mr. Fitz, I don’t …”

“Please,” Mr. Fitz says, and Ludo stops mid-sentence. “I know that it sounds crazy, Mr. Ludovico, but it’s important.”

Ludo should charge him double for such a request. He should deny Mr. Fitz - reserving all of the tables with only a moment’s notice is no little feat - but he doesn’t. This Scotsman has been holding a reservation for six months, and Ludo has to admit that he’s curious. (He’s clearly been listening to his employees and their silly theories too long.)

“Done. Anything else, Mr. Fitz?”

Mr. Fitz gives Ludo strict instructions: no bright lights, no other patrons, and no loud noises. The less staff the better, he says; nothing overwhelming. 

The staff erupt in excitement when Ludo announces what’s happened. He considers not telling them who the strings are being pulled for, but the frivolous romantic in him can’t keep them in the dark. The legendary, mysterious Mr. Fitz is finally fulfilling his reservation. 

Ludo decides to be the maitre’d for the evening. Owner’s privilege, he teases. 

When the sound of the front door opening heralds the arrival of their guests, Ludo has to slip quickly out of the kitchen so that no one can see his employees as they pile on top of each other at the door to peek out at the seating area. 

Mr. Fitz is younger than Ludo pictured. He’s nicely dressed in a downplayed way; the woman with him is beautiful. She glances around the restaurant like she’s not sure what’s happening. 

Ludo steps up. “Mr. Fitz, we’re delighted to see you. Your table is this way.”

The table had been chosen arbitrarily, and Ludo is pleased to see that the complimentary bottle of wine has already been brought out. That had been a last minute decision, really; a silent nod to the man who didn’t give up, perhaps, or a reward for such dogged patience. 

“The wine is a gift from us,” Ludo explains. “Very persistent young man here. We’ve been holding this reservation for months. I’m delighted you’re finally here.” 

Ludo gives them some privacy. He retreats toward the kitchen, where half of his staff has pushed the door open just enough to see a sliver of what’s happening. He arches an eyebrow in silent warning. His staff ignores him. 

“Have you decided what you’ll be having yet?” Ludo queries when he returns to pour the wine. 

The young woman is soft spoken - shy, perhaps - and seems sweet. There is no atmosphere of awkwardness around the young couple, no sense of strangeness between them. These are not people who have just met. 

Ludo is pouring the wine for the young woman when Mr. Fitz asks him to excuse himself. Ludo does so immediately, but he catches it out of the corner of his eye as he turns: the pursed lips and furrowed brow, the rise of tension in slim shoulders. 

He slips into the kitchen with his staff in order to give Mr. Fitz as much privacy as possible, but he can’t help peeking out one of the windows. 

“What’s happening?” the chef hisses.

“I think she’s crying,” a waitress answers. “He’s pulling a chair next to her!”

The young woman lays her head on Mr. Fitz’ shoulder, and the change is instant; almost as one body, Ludo’s staff straightens up and pulls away from the door. This moment is personal for the young couple; honest in a way that they have no right to observe. This is the culmination of six months of delayed plans, of hope and “don’t cancel” and “just push it back”.

“They must have been through something together,” the chef says quietly.

“What?” one of the younger men asks.

Ludo glances at the door, but not out of it. He sees in his mind’s eye the way the woman pressed her lips together, and her troubled brow, and sweet expression; thinks of her head on Mr. Fitz’ shoulder, and that familiar yearning beneath his words that had been wholly absent tonight.

Ludo answers, “Everything.”


End file.
